@TrentEvansAuthor asked me once what objectification means to me. What is it exactly about it that appeals?
(I’m paraphrasing, Trent, please allow me some creative freedom.)
It’s been a while now, and I tried to express myself as well as I could in my answer to the (highly charged and incredibly erotic) question, but it’s been in the back of my mind for a while now, so I thought I’d explore it more fully here.
At the time, I said something about being used and discarded, about being a means to an end. I particularly enjoy the stories that feature objectification in the context of a loving relationship; the tenderness and affection contrasts with use and abuse, and the seeming contradiction of terms creates a very sensual tension. One emphasises the other. Loving cruelty, I think I termed it.
(Side note: Trent is incredible at weaving these kinds of tales, as are @eenslaved, @rainrunnergirl, and @carolineconquered.)
My fantasies all feature the following: being kept subdued in some way, often naked while my dominant is fully clothed, made to be dependent on them somehow, physically altered to suit their tastes, and kept constantly on the edge for their use. A kept thing.
My favourite expression of this comes from Anneke Jacobs from her book, As She’s Told: “This – isn’t a human body,” I’d halted at last; “it’s a slave body.” He’d nodded. “It always has been. Parts, whole, all of it.” Long pause. “I can’t – I mustn’t ever think – I can decide about it. I don’t own it; I don’t own its parts. I can’t own – anything. It’s all – yours.”
Why do we want this? Why do we crave it? What about being a sexual object do we find so a rousing?
I can’t speak for others, but I think for me, it comes down to this: I want someone to want me so much, to find me so worthy of their time and effort and resources, that they want to keep me as their very own thing. I want them to find me so beautiful that they need me to always be aroused so they can use me at their convenience, and if I cannot be so on my own, they’ll make me. I want them to give me rules, control me and teach me and structure my life because they crave my submission as much as I crave their dominance and strength. I want them to know I am not fragile or breakable, to be unafraid of taking a firm hand to me, to say no to me even when I push, because they’re playing the long game and I’m unable to see past this moment. I want them to pierce me, wrap me in a tight corset, lock me in ballet boots, control my diet, physically change my body to suit their specific needs, regardless of what I want (provided I give consent, of course).
In other words: I crave objectification because I need to feel wanted. Why it manifests in this way, I don’t know. But I’ve come to see now that I was wrong in my original assumption. Objectification to me is not to be used and discarded. It is to be used and put away safely, and taken out again when needed – which, in my ideal reality, would be frequently.
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@TrentEvansAuthor asked me once what objectification means to me. What is it exactly about it that appeals?
(I’m paraphrasing, Trent, please allow me some creative freedom.)
It’s been a while now, and I tried to express myself as well as I could in my answer to the (highly charged and incredibly erotic) question, but it’s been in the back of my mind for a while now, so I thought I’d explore it more fully here.
At the time, I said something about being used and discarded, about being a means to an end. I particularly enjoy the stories that feature objectification in the context of a loving relationship; the tenderness and affection contrasts with use and abuse, and the seeming contradiction of terms creates a very sensual tension. One emphasises the other. Loving cruelty, I think I termed it.
(Side note: Trent is incredible at weaving these kinds of tales, as are @eenslaved, @rainrunnergirl, and @carolineconquered.)
My fantasies all feature the following: being kept subdued in some way, often naked while my dominant is fully clothed, made to be dependent on them somehow, physically altered to suit their tastes, and kept constantly on the edge for their use. A kept thing.
My favourite expression of this comes from Anneke Jacobs from her book, As She’s Told: “This – isn’t a human body,” I’d halted at last; “it’s a slave body.” He’d nodded. “It always has been. Parts, whole, all of it.” Long pause. “I can’t – I mustn’t ever think – I can decide about it. I don’t own it; I don’t own its parts. I can’t own – anything. It’s all – yours.”
Why do we want this? Why do we crave it? What about being a sexual object do we find so a rousing?
I can’t speak for others, but I think for me, it comes down to this: I want someone to want me so much, to find me so worthy of their time and effort and resources, that they want to keep me as their very own thing. I want them to find me so beautiful that they need me to always be aroused so they can use me at their convenience, and if I cannot be so on my own, they’ll make me. I want them to give me rules, control me and teach me and structure my life because they crave my submission as much as I crave their dominance and strength. I want them to know I am not fragile or breakable, to be unafraid of taking a firm hand to me, to say no to me even when I push, because they’re playing the long game and I’m unable to see past this moment. I want them to pierce me, wrap me in a tight corset, lock me in ballet boots, control my diet, physically change my body to suit their specific needs, regardless of what I want (provided I give consent, of course).
In other words: I crave objectification because I need to feel wanted. Why it manifests in this way, I don’t know. But I’ve come to see now that I was wrong in my original assumption. Objectification to me is not to be used and discarded. It is to be used and put away safely, and taken out again when needed – which, in my ideal reality, would be frequently.